


More Than Kisses

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Community: smutty_claus, Epistolary, F/M, Lily Luna Potter - character, Lysander Scamander - character, Next Generation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A magizoologist in the tropics, Lysander writes to his beloved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Kisses

_More than kisses, letters mingle souls. -- John Donne_

Dearest Lily,  
Already I can see that I have a great deal of work to do here, so much to identify and catalogue for the Ministry, so many magical, wonderful creatures that we in England can only have dreamt of, that I fear perhaps I will never be able to list them all. The trees are tall and broad-leafed, the night noises are quiet and chittering. The birds are brilliant rainbows in flight, and I have never seen flowers so open and inviting to the many insects that pollinate them. This place is vast and unusual, and there is so much to see, so many mysteries to unravel, but while it is strange to me, there is much about it that is familiar. So much that reminds me of home, of you.

When I arrived here, I appeared on the beach, in the middle of mist, during a dawn I could barely see. Then, as if some goddess had exhaled, breathing onto a mirror, the sky seemed to open. The clouds faded and above me was a soft glow, the color of the blush on your cheeks the first time I took your hand. In the lagoon, embraced by and frolicking in the mist, were a pair of Red Resonant Greatfish, playing in the shallow waters, their calls as carefree and dancing as your laughter when I pulled rose after rose after rose from the air to make you a bouquet.

I turned to gaze over my surroundings, looking at the edges of the lagoon, the white sands of the beach, the waving fronds that danced in the diaphanous tendrils of mist. Under one large and domed fern, I saw a pair of bare and brown feet, and when they moved, another pair shifted, one on either side. I realized the sighing of the breeze I heard was the sighing of a pair of young lovers, and I smiled, turning away to give them privacy. I remembered us, remembered being stretched out with you under a sheltering hedge. Your rounded breasts, soft under your aquamarine jumper, your hips curving beneath the pleats of your skirt. I have had sex before, shagged, screwed, and fucked, but that day, with you, with your hair spread across the grass and your thighs cradling my body, that was the first time I have ever made love. No matter where I am, no matter what I do, I can never forget how you made me feel. I can never forget you.

I miss you, my love.  
Lysander

* * *

Dearest Lily,  
I've discovered a Kipling's Walking Orchid here. I'm not entirely certain how it arrived - perhaps it learned how to walk on water and shuffled its way over the ocean to enjoy the breezes that sweep across the lagoon, or to watch the stars as they spin at night. I cannot blame it, if so. I often watch them myself, for there's one, just to the left, that reminds me of the curve of your back, just to the left.

Did you know, darling, that you have three constellations on your body? The first, as mentioned, is on your back. It hovers just above the dimple right above the left cheek of your buttocks. It's shaped like a circle, nine freckles in a ring. When you lay on your stomach and giggle and tell me that what I'm doing is tickling you, what I'm doing is tracing that circle, following the path of the stars over and over again.

The second, beloved constellation, is on the inside of your left knee. It's in the form of a starling, with outspread wings. I imagine that it is pressed to the shaft of your broom when you fly, and that the starling's wings keep you aloft. When I lay between your thighs, the starling flies over my hip and keeps me aloft until you give your trilling cry.

The third, I confess, is one whose shape I have never been able to identify, not fully. I've tried and tried, tried so many nights. But you see, that third constellation is nestled in the valley of your body, cradled low in the lips of your quim, and every time I see it, I cannot resist the temptation to lay my head on your stomach and trace the lines of that constellation with the tip of my tongue. I move from point to point and star to star, and each time I think I might have the shape of it, you arch your back and gasp. When I look up, your eyes are shining and I'm lost in them, and all I can do is reach my tongue for a pearl instead of a star.

I miss you, my shining star.  
Lysander

* * *

Dearest Lily,

Today, I spotted a Great Smoke-winged Butterfly. They pollinate the Flowering Bittertea that only grows near rivers, and their seed pods, when crushed, can be scattered on the garden for remarkably sized tomatoes and also incorporated into sugar biscuits. The Bittertea seed pods, that is. The Great Smoke-winged Butterfly has cocoons, not pods. Or so I assume, as most other butterflies have cocoons. Saving the Slashkilter, of course.

The Smoke-wing is rarely seen individually, except at the end of the summer, floating downstream in a great mass, the surface of the water dancing with grey and white wings. I thought to follow the one I saw, hoping perhaps to find where they gathered, and I almost had it. I was nearly there, the sound of hundreds of fluttering wings seeming to roar in my ears, and then I pushed through the leaves of a Singing Teektick. The roar I heard was a waterfall, easily three stories high. It was the second-most beautiful water-related sight I have ever personally witnessed.

The first was the morning after you stayed with me for the first time. I woke up in my own cocoon, floating on the surface of a bed still warm and sheets still curved from your body. I thought you'd left, and I spread my hand over the indentation your head had left in your pillow. Then I heard the softest noise, the smallest sound, and I looked up to see you stepping through the door, one towel wrapped around your hair, one wrapped around your body. You didn't seem to realize I was awake, and I watched you silently. You stretched, your arms reaching for the ceiling, your head tipping back, and both your towels loosened and fell to the floor. Water dripped from your hair to trail down your body, slithering in several thin lines over your breasts and stomach.

Your fingers cradled your stomach, gathering water on your skin, and you brought them up, caressing your abdomen, fluttering at your ribs, cupping your breasts. Your thumbs flicked at your nipples until they stiffened and a drop of water hung from each reddened tip. I stiffened as well, cock twitching, a drop beading on _my_ tip, and you turned to look me full in the face. You smiled and shook your hair back, water spattering on the wall behind you. You walked to the bed, to me, and crawled up and over the mounded sheets, up and over my body. You bowed your head and your hair fell around me, dripping onto my hips, chilled in contrast to the slick, heated warmth of your mouth. My blood pounded in my ears, roaring like the sound of the rapids against the rocks, and I came, the syllables of your name drifting from me like smoke-colored wings afloat.

I miss you, my waterfall.  
Lysander

* * *

Dearest Lily,

They have a berry here that is particularly rounded and red, covered in the smallest of nodules. They call it the sweetness of heaven, and though it resembles a raspberry, it is as far from that as gold from grass. When I take it between my teeth, it floats soft as clouds across my lips and my tongue. But compared to the taste of your breasts and the rounded tip of each, compared to the angel's kiss I feel each time my lips press to your nipples, even the delicate flavor of that berry is no better than sucking on dust. Without the curve of your breasts and the dotted stripe of pink freckles that starts at your collarbone and drifts down your cleavage, there is no glory or taste in the sweetest fruit.

The men of the village jest with me, their mouths stained with this berry, their white teeth speckled and red as they smile, but today, their leader took me by the shoulders, his callused palms snagging my robes. He looked into my eyes and asked me to say your name. I did, and again, and again without prompting, and he slapped one hand over my heart with a shout that shook the trees. "She," he told me and the men over my shoulder, "is a woman finer than any berry. It is clear in his eyes," and he pounded my chest again. "He is in love."

And I am.

"He is a lucky one."

And I am.

When I return home, I will count myself even more lucky to have your taste on my lips. I want to feel your arms around my shoulders, your nails plucking at my robes. I want to bend my head to your breasts and taste your nipples, with the softness of clouds floating on my tongue. I want to suckle each, lick them and surround them with my lips, take them into my mouth and roll them over my tongue. I know how you moan when I give them the lightest of tugs, I know how you gasp when I flutter my tongue over the very tip. To hear you again, to feel your rounded, reddened nipples harden and swell against my mouth, that will make me a lucky one.

I miss you, my sweetness of heaven.  
Lysander

* * *

Dearest Lily,  
Last night, the village stayed quiet and still, each man guarding his home with spear or axe or bow. They kept their backs to the firelight that bloomed from the center of the village, they watched the shadows and edges of the encircling jungle for gleaming eyes. Reports had come in of the arrival of the Walawa, a large, felinoid beast with a long, crimson mane. They travel in pairs, always, mates for life who never leave each other's side, not through illness or trouble or even death. When one falls, whether by misfortune or age, the other lays down as well. The touch their great snouts together, nose to nose, and they share each other's last breath. It is said, that before they surrender to a final sleep, they smile.

The Walawa passed through the village last night, walked straight through the center and around the fire without seeming to notice us. Together, side by side, their flanks touching as they moved, they ignored us for each other. Without axe or spear or bow, without a family here to guard and protect, I was able to watch them from the edge of my branch-covered porch. One was limping, and the other supporting, one great head drooping and another bowed. Their muzzles, their long crimson manes, were greying. They passed us by and went on their way, side by side, forever.

The night before I left for this island, you fell asleep beside me, exhausted from a long day of work and an even longer - but far too short - night of play. I remember how fiercely we made love, how you crouched on all fours in front of me. Your back arched, your hands clawed and clung to the sheets. Your own crimson mane shimmered in the firelight, your muscles glided under your skin and my trembling, stroking hands. You told me, after, your voice drowsy and purring, sweat drying on your brow, that you wanted me to have something to think of when I sat alone in the jungle, and then you drifted to sleep. I lay beside you, hip to hip, touched my nose to yours, and shared your breath. The last thing I remember, before my eyes closed, is that you smiled.

I miss you, my feline.  
Lysander

* * *

Dearest Lily,  
Your letter of yesterday - how can I do justice with parchment and quill to my reaction? I leapt from my hut with a cry that shook the trees around the village, I danced in the dirt with glee. The villagers stared, unabashed and bewildered, until my voice broke free of its tumult and I crowed my triumph to the sky like a hawk loose of its jesses. A child, my child, our child! When the people comprehended my exultations, they joined me in my dance, the men with their tattooed cheeks rounded as they grinned, the women with their bared breasts swinging unfettered. "It will be a son!" the men whooped; "It will be a daughter!" the women retorted. "It will be _loved_!" I shouted, and the cheers echoed in the village and in my mind throughout all the congratulations and the feast in celebration.

I counted the days and the weeks and I know the day, I know the time, it must have been. It must have been the night of the migration, the night I took you deep into the forest to watch as thousands upon thousands of tiny, incandescent insects fluttered towards the hidden clearing. Fireflies, you called them, and you held out your hands to catch a palmful of light. Flamilliflies, I told you, and you laughed as a group of them circled your head, forming a pale orange halo. We followed them, hand in hand and whispering, and we stepped between two ancient oaks and they were there, a great shining sphere of light. When their wings fluttered, the light flickered, and it looked as though a ball of flame hovered in the center of the clearing.

"They're seeking mates," I murmured, as you stood with your back to my chest, your hands laid over my arms around your waist. "They gather, and they band together. They taste each other with the lightest flicks of their tiny tongues, they feel each other with the lightest brushes of their antennae, and when a pair finds each other suited, they embrace in hopes their lights will turn red. Only then do they know they have the perfect mate, and they take wing." You laughed and turned to face me, stretching up on your toes to flick your tongue against my lips. Mischief filled your eyes and you pulled me down onto the moss.

We tasted with the lightest of flicks and we felt with the lightest of brushes, and I hovered over you, bathed in orange light. You embraced me, your arms wrapping up and around my shoulders, your legs wrapping up and around my hips, and I closed my eyes and entered you, and I saw a flash of red. The fluttering sound of wings matched the fluttering rush of my pulse, and when you arched your back and screamed, the Flamilliflies burst into the treetops. Perhaps it was the ecstasy of my own orgasm, perhaps it was my lightheaded exhaustion, but I thought, as they flew, that they formed the shape of a heart in the air.

I knew then that you were the perfect mate for me, and I thought I would never surpass the sheer flaming glory of that moment, but the news you have given me, the news of our child, made that night under the dancing orange and red -- I have flame, I have wings.

I miss you, my Flamillifly.  
Lysander

 

* * *

Dearest Lily,

My work is finished, all my cataloging is done. I have drawings and models of birds and fish and creatures, I have names for the rarest plants and insects. I can return home, to you, to our child. I no longer need to miss you, my love.

Look out the window.  
Lysander


End file.
